


Ensnare

by varooooom



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Dark, Angst, Grief, M/M, Minor Character Death, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-11
Updated: 2014-01-14
Packaged: 2018-01-08 07:52:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1130159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/varooooom/pseuds/varooooom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Series 3 AU: Morgana and Morgause take Camelot - and keep it. With Morgause having Seen the Druid's Emrys in Arthur Pendragon's manservant, she sets about the task of persuading him to become their greatest weapon in the fight to take Albion while Merlin is left alone to decide who is his true enemy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Collapse

**Author's Note:**

> I've been wanting to write this for ages and ages but it's been sitting on my Google Drive collecting dust. I'm going to post bits that I've already written and hope it's enough to convince me to actually finish the damn thing. I don't particularly like posting incomplete works, though, so I'munna have to fumble through how I plan to update this thing. It'll be fun!
> 
> As a forewarning! There is a _ton_ of violence in this guy, so I'll add warnings here and to the tags as I post them. Keep an eye out for it, I don't want anyone being exposed to stuff they're uncomfortable with!
> 
>  **current warnings** : burning at the pyre, public execution, torture, major character death, minor character death, fudged magic ( the horrors! ).

Merlin has witnessed the burnings before. Executions are never pleasant, regardless the method, but it's the burnings that Merlin hates most, for they are the most cruel to both the victim and those left to bear witness to the atrocity. The smell alone is enough to upset the stomach of even the most hardened of men, that charred and bitter scent of smoke and wood and game left too long over the firepit. He once thought that perhaps human flesh might smell differently but experience quickly taught him that all things turn to black when kissed by flame. Experience also taught him that the heat is nigh inescapable, no matter from where you might watch. It stings at the eyes and crawls across your skin as though the very air itself is set alight with the reminder that  _this could be you._  
  
But ultimately, it's the screams. Merlin will never forget the screams, so long as he should live.  
  
Yet for all that the burnings are simply a display of power and fear, Merlin has never been able to bring himself to look away. Death does not sit well with him, and though he is not exactly squeamish and only cried  _once_  when he witnessed the slaughter of a deer despite what  _someone_  might say, neither does the idea of turning a blind eye to the spectacle made of a sentencing. Burnings are used to make an example, a statement, and whether the accused deserves it or not, it is near always one of Merlin's kin upon the pyre. To look away would be to deny who they are, what he is, and all that the harsh punishment stands for. Until Albion arises to unite the nation and put an end to the persecution of his kind, Merlin has resolved himself to face them head on and pay respect to one more soul lost to the hatred and bigotry of others.  
  
But this? This, Merlin refuses to see.  
  
The courtyard can be seen in full from atop the balcony, every citizen within Camelot's walls corralled and forced to stand in the small space around the pyre set in the center to give all a fair chance of viewing. Young to old, man to woman, common thief to courtiers and the Knights - hundreds of bodies gathered into one solid mass to bear witness, and Merlin refuses to join their ranks. If not for the shackles around his wrists, engraved with runes and bewitched to seal away his magic, none of this would be happening and he would not have to look away. He would not have to clench his eyes shut as tightly as possible or struggle against the spell that holds him rooted upright at the rail of the balcony. He  _wouldn't be here_ , and it's this thought that sticks with him as he turns his head away.  
  
"What's the matter, Emrys?" chimes a sing-songy voice from beside him. What once may have been quite charming and beautiful sounds like the clash of steel and the scrape of the axe against stone as it's headed for the chopping block. Morgause may have presented something distantly familiar as the essence of the Old Religion thrummed beneath his skin, but now she is but the sound of Death in Merlin's ears. A cold hand grips his chin firmly, and he opens his eyes to see hers staring back with a steely glint of pride and victory, so very obviously pleased with the tides and even moreso in the face of his distress. "Do you not wish to pay your respects?"  
  
"I will not watch him burn," Merlin spits, but it loses its venom when his voice cracks on the last word, broken as though to reflect the man himself, the shattering loss within, and Morgause  _laughs_.  
  
"Oh, you will, Emrys. You will watch every second of it, make no mistake." And with a few simple words, his head snaps back to face forward, eyes trained upon the pyre as though held there by chains. No amount of struggling will release his gaze, and Merlin gives an involuntary whimper of defeat when he realises his magic cannot save him. His magic cannot save anyone.  
  
And he will never forget Arthur's screams.


	2. Insribe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> War is on the horizon and Merlin is waiting for nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right, so! Here's the next bit of this. I have loads of ideas for where this is going but I haven't actually gotten there yet, so I'm just winging it as I go along really. This is entirely unbetaed, and the timeline goes a bit wonky so it's probably awkwardly paced. I don't even know anymore.
> 
> It might be worth noting that my only inspiration for this story was Arthur burning, since we have tons of fic where Merlin is executed for magic and few where Arthur is executed for ... well, for being Uther's son, really. Thanks, canon. Anyway, it's probably the darkest I'll have written for this fandom but it's my fix-it fic, so it'll get better soon. Pinkie swear!
> 
> **warnings for this section** : grief ( read as: angst ), torture, murder ( minor characters ), general hopelessness, fake magic. Let me know if I've missed anything!

In the end, Merlin doesn't watch every moment of Arthur's death as promised. Though Morgause's spell kept him upright for the duration, it did not keep him _conscious_ , and Merlin comes to some time around dusk if the light filtering in through the nearby curtains is any indication. Blinking into awareness brings a heavy sinking feeling as he takes in the room around him. Objects are strewn about the floor haphazardly, chairs overturned and broken as though someone ransacked the place before engaging in battle with the furniture. The all-too-familiar canopy of the bed around him is shred to pieces, strips of red fabric like blood spilt across the ground. Though the curtains are drawn, Merlin realises the window is open ( or perhaps gone altogether; there's glass on the floor ) and the _smell_ drifts in to seize him like a hand around his throat.

It's Arthur's room. They left him in the Prince's chambers to surround him with the damage done, to remind him of that still to come.

It returns to him then, the events of earlier in the day. He was made to watch while tears as hot as the fire consuming Arthur spilled down his cheeks without relent. A sickening silence filled the courtyard as the citizens of Camelot watched their Prince burn alive, the quiet broken only by children screaming, too young to understand, and Arthur - screaming too, but an entirely different sort altogether. Merlin knew Arthur would try to refrain, would try to hold strong for his people as they were forced to watch, but as the heat built and licked greedily at his body, his stifled cries turned to an inhuman sound saved only for the dead. It echoes across the stone walls of the room as Merlin curls into himself on the bed, shaking and willing himself not to cry, and failing. 

Failing again and again, repeatedly in his mind, as Morgana assumed the throne with a self-satisfied smirk and a glint in her eye to match the glimmer of her stolen crown. As an undying army chanted "Long live the Queen!" and the reverberating shock startled them into action just a moment too late. As the sharp sting of metal slapped around his wrists and rendered him useless while Arthur tried to fend off Morgana's men, injured, outnumbered and defeated before he hit the ground. Useless and incompetent are not foreign words when used to describe him, but for the first time since he first drew breath, Merlin was actually _helpless_. Completely and utterly powerless to stop it as they were forced to their knees beside the dejected King, and Merlin still does not know what he feared more in that moment: what the sisters intended for them, Arthur's look of betrayal in learning of his magic, or the fact that his magic was _gone_. Gone, completely unreachable, when he's had it in his fingertips for as long as he's had blood in his veins. Not the loss of a limb or the numbing of one of his senses, but the removal of his _heart_ , his very _essence_ , and the pain of it was only marginally less than that of Morgana sentencing her brother to burn at midday. 

Helpless and lost, so much so that he may drown in it, and that's when the Queen herself enters the room.

"I see you've woken," she says sweetly with the same facetious smile she's had plastered on for the past year since her return to Camelot. Merlin can't even bring himself to edge away from her when she approaches the bed, only glares up at her with red eyes still brimming over with tears and contempt. She tuts and tilts her head in mock sympathy, "Oh, come now, don't be like that. We're on the same side. Look, we even gave you a nice room to sleep in. Fit for a prince, don't you think?" He doesn't give her the satisfaction of flinching at the jab, which only seems to please her more. "Though I must say, I like what you've done with the place." She looks around with vague disinterest as though speaking of the weather or grain reports, then gives a small quirk of her lips at Merlin's bewildered gaze.

"Oh yes, this was all you. It seems even with our seal," a hand reaches out to tap the metal and Merlin recoils as though she slapped him, "you are still quite powerful, _Emrys_. We figured if you were going to destroy the castle, you may as well do it from someplace familiar."

Still donning her ornate gown from earlier, crown perched perfectly atop her head, Merlin marvels at how he once thought her beautiful. How she was once a brilliant, strong minded woman with a talent for words and a fair hand at swordplay, much to Arthur's chagrin. Morgana was a wonder to behold, yet as he looks at her now in all her regalia with a proud smirk painted blood red, the only wonder is what happened to change her so. She stood beside him on the balcony, staring down at Arthur in much the same manner as she had all executions in that square: with a look of horror and disgust, a distant fear and a hint of hope that maybe, just maybe, something might happen to prevent it.

Merlin decides to use that, furrowing his brows as he meets her gaze and speaks with a hoarse and strained voice, "You watched him." The Queen's smile falters and he presses on. "You just stood there and watched."

"As he did with countless others -"

"But he was your _friend_ -"

"Do not speak to me of the sympathies of friendship, _Merlin_ ," she bites, and Merlin reels back with the barrage of guilt that always comes with what he considers his greatest failure. Considered. Its place has been taken by another Pendragon.

He drops his glare, eyes falling to someplace darker within him where regret and shame live as permanent residents. "That was my fault," his voice comes as a tired whisper, miserable even to his own ears, and he closes his eyes, "We were ... Time was running out, and I had no other options left."

"No other options? You poisoned me! Without even the decency to face me as you sent me to my death! And for what? Immunity to an enchantment I knew nothing about?"

"What? _No_!" Merlin tries to stand and face her, but the shackles yank him back, allowing only just enough slack in the chains for him to sit up straight. It's enough to temper them both from the heat of their conversation, wrecked though Merlin may be. "It wasn't - Morgause was channeling the spell _through you_ , and everyone was going to die if I didn't -" But his feeble explanation is cut short by Morgana blanching and taking a step back from him, confusion written across her face. "You - she never told you."

A statement, not a question, because Morgana's sudden pallor in spite of her stiffness gives answer says it all. "She told me enough."

Merlin again tries to get closer to her in vain, "Morgana! You must have known I would never have - I had no other choice!"

"It was not your choice to make!" and there's a pain in her voice, a conflict and betrayal that Merlin can't begin to unravel, and he doesn't get the chance to try. Morgause walks in that very moment, the devastation clearing from Morgana's face as though covered with a mask.

"Sister," the Priestess says sweetly, coming to her side with warm eyes and a loving smile. It makes Merlin feel ill. "The preparations are complete. Your banquet awaits you."

Morgana smiles, the way she used to when Arthur did something unusually kind, but there's a light missing in her eyes and Merlin wonders if he hasn't wedged something into place. "Thank you, sister."

Morgause nods her head once before looking down at him, the smile taking on a sharper edge. She's a well-trained warrior, that much Merlin has seen firsthand, but her sword and her magic are not her only weapons. "Emrys. We would afford you the seat beside the Queen, the highest honour in the land, if you would care to join us."

"Never," he says coldly, solid and sure, unwavering as the morning Sun rising in the East, but her confident smile does not yield.

"We have time yet. But this little game can wait; there are celebrations to be had for the birth of a new dynasty. Shall we?" She turns back to Morgana, reverence in her eyes, and offers her arm, to which the Queen curtsies politely before placing her hand upon it. He doesn't know why, but panic shoots up Merlin's spine and he reaches out to them, chains rattling as they hold him back once more.

"Wait!" 

They stop just before the door to turn their heads in his direction. The differences between them strike him vividly: Morgana's hair black as the darkest hours of the night in contrast to Morgause's radiant, golden ringlets; her smooth, ivory skin to the Priestess' earthy tan; and yet it's their eyes that show the relation clearly. Not for their colour - Morgana's are green where Morgause's are brown - but for the cold edge to them, the power brimming underneath the surface as a scarcely tamed river flowing the wrong direction. Merlin swallows, feeling the weight of their stare all too keenly.

"I just, I need to know. The King -"

His inquiry is cut short by a sudden cry of pain - his own, as every nerve in his body sparks to life under Morgause's glowing eyes. It lasts for only a moment, but the residual sting dances across his limbs to leave him crumpled and aching on the bed.

"Uther Pendragon, the Tyrant and the Butcher, is no longer your King, Emrys. See that you remember this."

" _Fine_ ," Merlin breathes out, gasping for air and struggling to sit back up, "Fine. I don't - I just need to know if you - did you kill him too? Is he - ?"

"Oh, no," and this time it's Morgana that answers, tone dripping with contempt and a vicious glee. "My father still lives. I made certain that his cell had a decent channel to the courtyard. He could not see, but he could hear. Many were not granted a last glimpse of their loved ones before he claimed them, so I think I did him a kindness. Wouldn't you agree, sister?" Morgause smiles her agreement, and Morgana looks back to Merlin with mirrored mirth. "And I will do him many more before his time comes to an end."

They turn their backs on him to sweep out of the room, and Merlin is left alone with the chilling realisation that her threat is a promise, one that should hardly be exclusive to Uther as they both rot on opposite sides of the same mourning. This is the punishment for their crimes, and Merlin isn't convinced they don't deserve everything that may come.

* * *

Every day, servants bustle around the castle to try and set things back in order. Merlin tries not to think of them as slaves, as the desperate workers of a tyrant queen paid not in coin but fear for their lives and loved ones, but it's a difficult task. He is not grateful that he isn't enlisted in the rebuilding, but neither would he spare a bead of sweat to the crown bejeweled with blood.

He tells Morgana as much. She isn't pleased.

But the servants still come to the room ( not _his_ room, and certainly not Arthur's ) at least three times a day to bring him food. Morgause claims only love and adoration to her kin, and treats him kindly to fair meals and a warm bed and even a fresh bath four days after - after everything. Merlin partakes in none of it; the food goes to rot on the bedside table, he sleeps not more than half an hour at a time, and he gives the bath to the shaking handmaidens that deliver it. Morgana isn't pleased about that either, but their methods of lashing out at him are getting old.

Gradually, it seems the servants become more eager to visit the chambers. Their initial hesitance and fear of his magic bleed away into mutual distress and anguish. Many of them remember him from a different time when he would run all about the castle, helping people with their chores when he had barely enough time for his own. All of them know his former position, but none of them mention it, and eventually they become something of friends. They try to convince him to eat; he thanks them with a smile, and it is very nearly a sincere one. Sometimes they'll make conversation while cleaning the unused room, to keep him updated on the things he can't see from the window and that Morgause won't boast about.

"Gaius?" he asks on the sixth day, head turned on the towards the day's maid - Angela, one of the more talkative of the chambermaids. She's a sweet girl, and far too gentle for working in Morgana's castle, but she has a little brother and her father was killed in the invasion, so she works diligently and keeps her head low. Except for when she's cleaning around the chambers.

"Busy as ever. He's been sneaking remedies to the lower town. Lots of sick from - well, he's busy."

Sometimes she reminds Merlin of Guinevere. So he asks after her too.

"Oh, Gwen, gods, she's brilliant," Angela says breathlessly, rearranging chairs that only ever seat visitors Merlin doesn't want. He's broken then countless times. Morgause repairs them out of spite. "She's still serving the Queen, but it's to keep us all safe. She tells us beforehand when her majesty is upset, or where to do what so she'll be pleased at the end of the day. She's a blessing in all this, really."

Merlin nods his head, a soft smile on his lips. Those are his friends. He'd expect nothing less. His eyes fall closed as exhaustion takes over, but the sound of sniffling keeps him from succumbing to sleep.

"Angela?"

"I'm sorry," she croaks, wiping furiously at her eyes, "I'm sorry, I just. I wish the Pri -"

The chamber doors burst open to interrupt a sentiment Merlin isn't certain he wanted to hear finished, and they both start at Morgause's sudden appearance. Angela bows deeply with a stuttered ' _my Lady_ ' before skittering off to do actual chores, and a vague look of amusement plays on the Priestess' lips as she walks over to the bed.

"Making friends, are we?"

"Did you miss the part where she was crying? They still think I can turn them into a toad," Merlin lies cleanly, hands curling defensively in their all-too-familiar cuffs to sell the guise. But he sinks back into an easy nonchalance, the same disinterest he's faced them with since his capture. It's easy to seem not to care when you really, honestly and truly, _don't_. "Or maybe she simply thinks I smell."

"It is positively offensive, Emrys," she smiles, fingers trailing along the bedside table where his breakfast remains untouched. "And it's through no neglect of our own. I see you've still yet to eat as well."

"It's pork seasoned with treachery and mindless cruelty. Doesn't quite agree with my stomach."

Morgause's lips quirk, as close to a laugh as she ever gets to his retorts, and she places a finger on the runes of his cuffs. They glow with her eyes, and a sharp pain shoots through his veins as his magic tries to fight against the attack. Though his entire body tenses and his back arches from the mattress, Merlin does not cry out, solemnly refuses to, and when it stops, he lets out a harsh breath that makes Morgause smile brightly.

"So very dignified. Just like the Knights." There's something wicked in her tone that chills Merlin's blood, and dread sets heavy in his gut. "You'll learn yet."

"What are you going to do?" She ignores him, sweeping gracefully back out of the room as he shouts after her. "Morgause! What are you going to do?"

The curtains are drawn back the day Morgana lets arrows loose upon the hapless citizens in the courtyard. Merlin's scream shatters every glass object in the room, and possibly those on either side of it as well.

The sisters come to visit him while bodies are still being dragged from the square and angry tears continue trailing streaks down his cheeks. Morgause doesn't even give pause to his baleful glare, but something flickers across Morgana's eyes for the briefest of seconds, there one moment and gone the next. He notices it still, and Merlin decidedly speaks directly to her.

"Those were innocent people, _your_ people, and you slaughtered them like easy game. Have you no sense of decency left to you?"

"That is no way to speak to your Queen -" Morgause starts threateningly, but Merlin snaps his head toward her with an angry snarl.

"What are you going to do to me? Hm? Torture me some more? Go ahead. I will gladly suffer a thousand deaths before I consider you my Queen."

Morgana lifts her chin defiantly, but before she can say anything, Morgause grins. Actually fucking _grins_ , and Merlin has to fight not to cower before it.

"That can easily be arranged, Emrys."

And easily, it is. Merlin is moved from the bed for the first time in a week, though only to the center of the room where his shackles are tethered to a hook affixed on the ceiling. They give just enough slack in the chains for him to stand on the balls of his feet in the center of a circle of heavy spellwork. Merlin remains quiet through it all, too stubborn to struggle against them and to weak to even try. The couple of servants enlisted to the task finish shoving the furniture to the walls and take their leave, Morgana and Morgause the only two remaining just outside the edge of the circle. The Queen looks confused and almost apprehensive as she eyes the markings warily.

"Sister?"

Morgause smiles pleasantly and places her hand fondly on the back of Morgana's, then turns back to Merlin. "As requested."

A long string of Old words, and the circle lights up for a heartbeat before bursting into flame. Merlin inhales sharply as the heat surrounds him, latches onto him and feasts upon his flesh. He thinks of the Knights in the courtyard chanting ' _Long live the King_ ' in the face of the firing squad. He thinks of Gwen and Gaius risking their lives to save the city from the inside. He closes his eyes and thinks of Arthur, of his bright smile and his loud laugh and his mean punches; he thinks of the weight upon his shoulders and his love of his people; he thinks of his face twisted in agony as unwilling screams were torn from his body.

The fire consumes him and Merlin cries, shrill and broken and tearing at his throat as his body is burnt away; only for it to stop, no damage done to his body at all - and then it starts all over again.

The servants stop coming to the room.

* * *

Merlin doesn't know how long he lasts before his body succumbs to the pain, but when his mind collapses in on itself, he falls into a dream. He dreams of Ealdor; simple, beautiful Ealdor. One road that stretches on to the ends of the Earth in either direction. A handful of houses scattered around it that look the part of eternity breezing on past it in a clear, straight line: untouched by any but the weather, time and the people that live within them. A population small enough to be counted on hands and toes; it's how he was taught and Hunith was always the pointer finger because ' _Mum is number one_.' And though he knows it's a dream, Merlin can't help but to smile. The Sun is unrelenting and cruel, beading sweat across everyone's brows as they work hard ( and everyone has to do their part ) yet his skin always manages to keep its pale tone. Will shoves him and tells him his skin's fairer than Giselle's, and she throws a bucket of manure at them. His best friend uses him as a shield, and Merlin reconsiders that 'best friend' part.

Will doesn't shove him anymore. Merlin would be grateful, but Will doesn't laugh anymore either; doesn't make crude jokes or smile or open his eyes or breathe.

Merlin doesn't stay in Ealdor. He picks a direction and follows the well worn road, a familiar path that he's taken a thousand times over into the forest. One of his favourite places in all the world, where trees crowd together and reach up to the pierce the heavens and hide away the Sun. Light trickles down in streams and clutters, dancing along the ground where leaves blow around in circles and animals crawl into hiding. Merlin loves it out here because he can feel the magic thrumming in his blood, singing to the Earth, and the Earth sings back. The trees sway with the wind, the birds pick up the chorus and Merlin runs through it all, laughing and screaming, wrapped up in its embrace until it's too much, too hot, burning, burning.

The forest is on fire, age old roots torn from the ground as easily as riprip _rip_ , burning down to the ground. It's everywhere and nowhere and all Merlin can do is run, run and run until it's in his lungs and all he knows is running. Running from his home, from his sanctuary, running forever until he crashes into sunlight. Bright golden light, brilliant laughter and long, sunbathed limbs. A distant drawl of ' _Mer_ lin' and lips pressed together, fingers tangled in his hair and _light_. The Sun. The stars.

Arthur. _Arthur_.

Merlin cries and he's awake but only vaguely, only enough to feel his body screaming in pain and the hushed whispers of someone he knows, someone he recognises.

"Arthur," he cries again and Guinevere pets his forehead, pushing back his hair.

"He's burning up, Gaius, are you certain - ?"

"It'll pass with the enchantment. Help me get him to the bed now," and Merlin knows that voice, he knows it from _somewhere_.

"Arthur," he tries once more but the world is spinning, around and around in blood red clouds until he's drowning in it. Red everywhere, and it's not the same colour of flame but it hurts nearly as much. Nearly. " _Arthur_." He thinks someone might be crying, and he thinks it might be him, and then he stops thinking.

Dream-Arthur doesn't say much. He laughs and smiles with perfectly straight teeth except for just the one, and that one's Merlin's favourite but Arthur punches him every time he tells him so. He doesn't speak often, but he shoves Merlin out of the bed and then flops down after him and kisses him into the stones until they're both shivering from the cold. He mouths something mean and teasing and wordless before grinning fiendishly and pinning Merlin to the mattress with hands and hips and feet tangled under sweaty sheets. Merlin thinks he might be forgetting the sound of Arthur's voice, but when he cries, Arthur laughs and laughs and Merlin wakes up again.

There are servants in the room again, far more than there are meant to be, he thinks, because there aren't meant to be any at all. They're busy cleaning, but that's his job, isn't it? And why is the room so messy anyway? Pages of books litter the floor, their covers torn away and lost to opposite corners of the room. Furniture is overturned and scattered, nothing broken but nothing in place, do they even have a place anymore? What are they there for, when no one will sit at them? What purpose do they serve with no one to use them? Why are they cleaning the room?

Merlin opens his mouth to ask but all that comes is a strangled croak. He flinches at the horrid sound, which sends a jolt of pain coursing through his body and he wonders if the fire is in his veins now. If they cut him, open will he bleed flame?

Someone takes notice of his pained jerking, trying to escape the touch of flame that is not there, and shouts after Gwen. The bed dips with her weight as she sits next to him and goes back to petting his hair. The touch startles him into facing her as she coos a gentle ' _It's all right, Merlin, you're all right_ " and he struggles to remember who Merlin is. His brows furrow, confused and comforted by the soft lull of her voice, the curls of her hair draping down, the red glaze over her brown eyes. She's beautiful, he thinks, always has been, and he tries to tell her but only manages to rasp out "You."

Gwen smiles anyway and reaches for a cup on the bedside. "Will you drink this for me? Please, it'll help." Merlin doesn't think anything will help, not when the fire is inside him, but he'll do it if it means her smile doesn't burn away too. It's cold and smooth, only water, but he chokes on it anyway, managing to keep down not even half of it. Wonderful Gwen, beautiful Gwen, doesn't even berate him for it or call him an idiot, ' _absolutely useless, Merlin._ ' She simply keeps one steady hand on his leg and the other tipping up the bottom of the cup encouragingly until he's had his fill. He can't recall the last time he had a drink, but he doesn't remember it tasting so _foul_.

When she relieves him of the cup only to replace it with a plate of food, Merlin strongly reconsiders the wonderful bit, but he hasn't the strength to deny her and is halfway convinced this is only a slightly more lucid dream than the last. He lets her feed him a thin broth, some small bits of meat and something leafy, and then vomits half of it over the side of the bed. It's not until they lower him into a bath that Merlin realises he's shaking and must have been for quite some time. His wrists are bruised and torn beneath the cuffs, his blood only serving to strengthen the runes that he's memorised thrice over by now, and his skin seems whiter than ever. He's observing it curiously when the shaking turns to convulsing and he doesn't remember making it back to the bed, only waking up alone in the castle.

Completely and entirely alone, not a soul to speak of in all the halls and corridors, which is how Merlin knows it to be a dream. Even in the dead of night, the castle is not this quiet; even on that night of the dead, but Merlin won't think about that, won't bring to mind the unending darkness and the hushed silence that gripped the whole of Camelot while Morgana sat upon the throne.

He won't think about it. He has to find Arthur.

Back to running, always running, and Merlin rounds the blissfully familiar passages for what feels like days without hide nor hair of the Prince. Admitting defeat is unthinkable though, so he keeps one foot before the other, never once slowing for sake of breath or the ache in his legs. Arthur will be proud, he thinks, he might even lay off on the girl jokes once he realises Merlin must've run for ages to find him. He keeps that image in mind - Arthur's pleasant surprise like the mornings he arrives on time or the mornings he doesn't arrive at all because he's too busy curled up at his side - and runs and runs and stops at the throne room.

Of course. _Of course_ , and there's nothing pleasant to be found here. This scene has played out in his mind hundreds of times, and part of him wonders if this is Morgause's enchantment or if his subconscious rather loathes him. Either way, he's had enough of the both of them and closes his eyes, willing the sight away, but Morgana is still dying at his feet. She is choking and crying, ugly sounds on a porcelain face that's shattering, cracking away to something darker and cruel. A Queen upon a throne, and Merlin falls to his knees beside the Prince and the former King. Arthur's mouth is working, shouting soundlessly and all Merlin can hear is "In commemoration of a new era, blood will be paid for with blood. I sentence you, Arthur Pendragon, to burn at midday for your crimes, and may the age of magic rise up from your ashes."

Morgana smiles, but it is only a mask, and when it slips to the ground, Merlin wakes to her standing above him.

As the dreams fade into reality, pain sets back in and Merlin lays helpless at her mercy. "I'm sorry," he says brokenly, a cry with no tears left to be shed, "I'm sorry." It's all he says, all he _can_ say under the heat of her gaze that burns his body away to nothing. Arthur is dead, he killed Morgana, and the kingdom burns to a chorus of "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

When he falls back into sleep, he remembers Arthur's voice in the sound of his screaming.

* * *

It's another week before Merlin recovers to a steady point of lucidity. Pain lingers on in his flesh but he can tell the difference between the imagining of his skin rendered from bone and the reality of Morgause's gleaming smile hovering above her artwork. He's not sure which he prefers just yet, and when the thought is spoken aloud, the Priestess humours him with a quick shock through his already weakened body, eliciting sharp cries that shake the foundation of the chamber walls.

Morgana watches from behind her sister, arms crossed and brows furrowed. Merlin stares at her with wet eyes as he tries to remember how to breathe and Morgause calls it a day.

Gwen sees that he is fed at least twice a day, sending someone in her stead so as not to be caught stealing away to the forbidden parts of the castle. Gaius visits only once to check Merlin's pulse and breathing, to ensure no permanent damage is left from the spell, and to mourn for someone not yet lost. Merlin remains detached from the whole of it all, aware but vacant, unwilling to accept that which the Queen and the devil on her shoulder have given him. It nearly becomes rote, between the monotonous meals and regularly paid visits of failed persuasion, the Priestess always stringing together pretty words of kinship and the return of magic, the Queen always watching in silence as Merlin refuses and screams and cries and refuses some more.

Once, she comes to him alone in the dead of night, clothed in a white silken nightgown that gives her an ethereal glow in the scant moonlight filling the room. A spectre, a ghost from the past; a frightened girl once cursed with dreams, now a frightening woman cursed with pride. Merlin eyes her warily as she approaches, arms folded defensively across her chest and head turned away with an unhappy curl of her lips. Morgana hates seeing this room only slightly less than she hates Merlin, as they both fill her with memories of betrayals; some real, some perceived, all nothing close to what she thinks. The truth is an empty void between them, smaller as she nears the bed and wider as she looks at him.

"Trouble sleeping, my Lady?" Merlin croaks, a bitter note in the stilted title, nothing more than a crude homage to a time long past. She snorts in vague amusement.

"This, from the man who sleeps not more than a few hours every day. I am no fool, Emrys, I know Gaius sends you sleeping draughts you refuse to take."

Merlin simply stares up at her, no interest in discussing his intentions with the woman what set them on this path. His body grows weaker by the day, from disuse and the rough treatment of his so-called _kin_ , and though he's not looked in a mirror in well over a month now, he can imagine the picture he must make. He can see faint sketches of it in Morgana, the tired bags under her eyes despite the healing bracelet still clasped about her wrist, the faint traces of a wild desperation in her eyes as though what she's seeing is not quite reality. Perhaps just a dream, another nightmare, a vision gone wrong. Merlin wonders for only a moment what those troubled green eyes see in the world around them before he says,

"What do you want, Morgana?"

Her lips purse, hesitation before she steels herself, yet still her voice comes as little more than a harsh whisper. "Why did you not tell me?" He doesn't need to ask to know what she means; it is the one thing that carved the schism between they blessed few, the ones gifted with a curse seldom considered a blessing - but Merlin was given a chance to _try_ , and Morgana keeps dying in his arms. He shakes his head, voice still little more than a rasp when he speaks.

"The same reason you never told Arthur."

"This has nothing to do with him."

"This has _everything_ to do with him," Merlin bites, hissing through his teeth as he pulls himself to sit up against the headboard. The chains of his shackles rattle with the movement and her eyes fall to them, her frown deepening, but Merlin's eyes stay on hers. "You know this is about him, it's _all_ about him. You couldn't make him choose between protecting you and remaining loyal to his father. You didn't trust him to keep you safe with something neither of you understood. You thought he would reject you."

"Wouldn't he?" she snaps, anger and resentment lashing out along with fear and confusion. Merlin holds her gaze and shakes his head.

"Arthur loved you, Morgana. Arthur loved you more than anything, as more than simply the King's Ward. He was your brother before you were his sister, he _loved_ you," whispers Merlin. It hurts to say aloud, to give voice to that which they both know. Arthur was a better man than either of them gave him credit for because they were too scared to try, and look where they are now. She curls even further in upon herself, fingers digging into her arms tightly and her deep frown trembling with words unspoken, words that will never be spoken because there's no one left to hear them. What little is left of Merlin's heart breaks just that much further.

"Tell me, Morgana, are you happy now?" he asks, not cruelly. Harsh, perhaps, but not mean - true, instead, _sincere_ ; he wants to know, just as she _needs_ to. "Did sentencing him to death make you feel better? Did watching him burn fix that which was broken by someone else's hands? Or does the fear still linger?"

If she would let herself cry, rivers would bend before her, Merlin thinks. But Morgana has always been loathe to show weakness, covers any chinks in her armour with a cold haughtiness, and he would be the last for her to lift the veil for now. She lifts her chin defiantly in spite of the red glaze across her eyes, and Merlin meets her gaze evenly.

"Tell me, _your majesty_ , how many lives must you claim to fill the place of the one person that could've made you feel you weren't alone?"

The Queen of Camelot sweeps out of the room without another word and Merlin's fairly certain neither of them find sleep that night.

Morgause comes to him the next morning with two of her undead soldiers in tow. Merlin has fought to remain strong before her, but survival instinct and a natural fear curl heavy in his belly and he inches away as much as he can manage when they come in close. The smirk on her lips is not kind and her eyes flash gold briefly. He expects pain and braces himself for something that does not come; instead, the chains linking his shackles to the bed fall away and the guards yank him roughly to his feet. His legs are unsteady, strung tight from lack of use and struggling to keep him upright; when he stumbles, the men that are less-than-Men catch him with hands under his elbows, and Merlin would almost prefer having hit the stones.

At his grimace of disgust, Morgause smiles. "Is something wrong, Emrys?"

"This castle _reeks_ of death," he snarls, pulling weakly away from the guards. He'd rather take his chances on broken legs than be held up by the grip of unnatural immortality. It's an affront to nature, and his disdain is writ clear on his face. She only smiles still.

"How, then, would you like to get some fresh air?"

They move slowly through the castle to account for Merlin's weakened state, though Morgause never once turns to see that he's still following. The guards at his back give him a shove every time his step falters, grip him tight to hold him upright when the exertion has him gasping for breath, and all the while, the Priestess smiles and carries on with her pace as though it's just another stroll through the gardens. When they break through the front doors, Merlin's fist time outdoors since the - since that day, and sunlight floods his eyes shining brighter than it has any right to without that which burnt at its core. He flinches against the assault and opens his eyes to find Morgause already halfway across the courtyard, every servant frozen mid-chore and staring at him until the moment he looks their direction.

The lingering gazes continue even past the citadel walls and into the city; Merlin gets the distinct feeling of being an animal on parade, led forward in chains as a curious sight for all to see. They remember him, of course they do, and he remembers them in turn, but the changes in the populace are obvious from the very first moment. New storefronts and stalls line the road, older buildings repaired for new inhabitants - all of them, magic. Merlin's eyes widen to see enchanted jewelry openly on sale before a wizened woman shouting at a man claiming to be a Seer ( ' _would you like to hear your fortune, friend_?' ) that he's nothing but a fraud and he'd best stop stealing her bread, so help her. A girl and her brother are washing, drying, and folding clothes all at once across the road, and a boy two houses down gets hit by a nearby pot when she catches him trying to float away one of her nightdresses.

Normal, nonchalant, completely at home; magic in the streets of Camelot, unchecked and unrestrained.

His heart aches, and when he can finally tear his eyes away from the display, Morgause has stopped to smile at him. There's a warmth there, a genuineness to it that he's only seen directed towards Morgana, and he knows it's not meant for him but rather the city they've grown. Pride in their accomplishments. His heart _aches_.

"Beautiful, is it not?" she says wistfully, looking around them fondly before returning back to him. "Much can change within a month. This is as magic was meant to be, Emrys, how _we_ were meant to be. Not tucked away in the nooks and crannies of the woods or beneath a servant's clothing," her eyes track the thinning fabric that hangs from his frame far more than they used to with disdain, then smirks just a little, "like common men, hiding the gifts granted us."

She continues walking as she talks, the guards behind him shoving him onward again. He listens to her words without hearing them, eyes trained on what has become of the capitol.

"These are the people of Camelot, _your_ people. We welcomed them in from every corner of the kingdom and they came in droves, happily, overjoyed to _finally_ have someplace to belong." Morgause stops to observe a potion from one of the merchant booths, a small man bowing too-deeply and offering her anything she'd like, ' _everything for my Lady_ '. She sets it back down with a smile, continuing on her path. "But not everyone has come to us. The Druids remain hidden, our summons gone unanswered and our searches fruitless. My sister's throne is not yet assured, as the Pendragons' allies gather arms in defiance of her claim, and we need the Druids on our side if we are to truly birth the age of magic."

Merlin's heart races, eyes blown wide even as they cease their walking for her to face him again. Racing, _running_ , and she smiles.

"But you, they will hear. They will not deny you, for your destiny was always to bring rise to a new era. Only you can seal our freedom, Emrys."

Sincere, earnest. Merlin balks.

"This is wrong."

Her smile flickers, the faintest falter in her otherwise pleasant demeanor, and Merlin doesn't understand how she can't see, how she can be so _blind_. A child runs past chasing a playful spark of light; the children of Camelot, the children he _knows_ from when the Knights would pass through and ruffle their hair after bashful hands offered flowers to their heroes, dart away from the corners of windows or sit in filthy alleyways, huddled together for warmth. Buildings destroyed in the siege have been restored for new residents, built taller and stronger with magic behind it; the old residents, the people that thanked Arthur in the streets and took far too much pleasure in endorsing his punishments for Merlin ( typically via half-rotten fruit ), have been relocated to places that remain trapped in that destructive past, quiet and subdued from their usual chatter as they go hurriedly about their business.

Magic is thriving under a new reign of oppression. His heart aches under the weight of the lives bound within the city walls by Morgause and the cruelty of that tainted smile.

"It's wrong, all of this." He feels panicked and pained, an animal on parade that yearns to be free of its chains, to go back to the home he'd known before someone snatched it away from him. The ache of every day past without his Prince burns behind his eyes, his voice gone to a rasp. "What have you done? What - ?"

Then, he sees. His words are cut short by an eye-opening revelation, a building not ten paces away that he knows, that he remembers. A small inn for newcomers with a dining hall downstairs that served up delicious pies straight from the oven, run by a couple that had come to Camelot searching better avenues. Merlin remembers them clearly; they'd given him a taste when they'd first arrived, unsure of whether they could afford their wares in the city yet far too kind to ' _that scraggly boy that follows the Prince_ '. He'd boasted the food to Arthur until the Prince caved and came with him, only to fall so deeply in love with the pastries that he overpaid every time they visited, no doubt keeping the inn afloat near single-handedly. All for the pies. Merlin teased him relentlessly, and Arthur vehemently denied everything through berry stained lips and bitter-sweet kisses.

Unconscious feet carry him toward its burnt remains. Two bodies - _charred bodies_ \- hang midair above the rubble. A display of power. A warning. Merlin's hands shake.

Morgause sighs from behind him, uninterested. "Not all have adapted quite so readily as the others. A few required _persuasion_ while some," she pauses, undoubtedly sneering where Merlin can't see her, doesn't need to see her to _know_ , "outright refused ' _to yield to such barbarians_ ,' though they bowed for your _Prince_ easily enough. They served a good cause, Emrys, in teaching the others how to properly behave around their peers."

They had a boy, no more than seven years of age. Was he one of those in the alley? Merlin's hands shake and the foundations shake with him.

"You'll pay for this, Morgause." When he turns to her, his eyes flash gold and the building collapses, the bodies lowered to rest beneath the earth of their hard-earned accomplishment. Black clouds of soot and ash rush up from behind them, the undead guards behind Morgause shielding their eyes while the two sorcerers stare each other down, unflinching. "You will have your war, and you will lose _everything_. You will suffer for every crime you have committed. Make no mistake."

Merlin parrots her words back to her, power brimming behind wet eyes as his iron cuffs burn red-hot. It hurts. He hurts, all over, everywhere, and Morgause only stares without a shred of emotion. She was a fool to think this would sway him to their side. She was a fool to even try.

"You may as well lock me in that room for the rest of my days. I will never serve you and your cause."

She lifts her head, the first open sign of irritation, and smiles a blood-chilling grin. "As you wish."

* * *

The grief of Arthur's death hits Merlin once and only once, less than a week after his trip into the city and just shy of two months after – after it all began. The room feels smaller and the air thinner, making it harder to breathe and leaving Merlin gasping, sobbing. There is no loud wailing, and his magic doesn't lash out past its limiters to break apart everything that has the audacity to exist without the Prince alongside it. He doesn't scream or shout or curse the sisters and destiny and the high bloody heavens or anything like that. His grief doesn't explode from him but rather burns deep within, the last candle in a rainstorm, fighting to stay lit while at constant danger of drowning, the brightest thing for miles waiting to burn out.

Merlin curls into himself, knees tucked up to his chest, the cuffs rattling as he shakes, sobs, cries silently into pillows that no longer smell of his Prince.

He keeps his back to the door, and doesn't notice when Gwen and another handmaiden bring him food, or when Morgana comes and stops and stares for ten minutes before leaving. He cries and cries and the Sun sets and the Sun rises.

* * *

A battle is waged on the northern border. King Bayard remembers well when magic tried to drive apart the efforts at peace between Camelot and Mercia, remembers too the lengths the Prince went to in order to disprove their guilt and save the life of one insignificant manservant. ( He knows what he thinks he knows; Mercian bards sing of a heroic quest to confront the witch and break them free of their irons. Merlin remembers Arthur's humbled face when Merlin thanked him. ) The King must've seen something there, some potential at the heart of Camelot, and sends a declaration that he will not see magic devour his allies in the form of the Queen's three most powerful sorcerers' heads.

Many other lives are lost in the skirmish, but it's those three above all else that send Morgana into a rage. She storms into Merlin's prison cell fuming, Morgause trailing close behind with a smug sort of glare that the Queen can't see, yet it's all that fills Merlin's eyes as Morgana screams and shouts at him. She claims that _he_ is at fault, _he_ let this happen, he is _killing their kin_ ; and all the while, the Priestess stares at Merlin with something akin to _satisfaction_ on her lips - and _that_ , more than Morgana's shrieking and curses, shakes him to his core with fear.

She's driving Morgana to desperation. There are bags beneath Morgana's eyes, dark ugly circles that clash with the painted red and make her look haunted. Enraged and manic; Morgause is pushing her off the edge of reason into madness.

She leans close into her sister's side, a gentle hand on Morgana's arm as she whispers something wicked, and Morgana's eyes widen fearfully the moment before they flash golden. Instinctual magic, no spell uttered because there was no intent behind it, only a reflexive flare of raw _power_ and Merlin cries out as something within him _tears_. His own eyes flicker a dull yellow, a shade of his magic attempting to protect him as his back arches off the bed in pain. When he falls back, prone, blood trickles from his mouth and starts to spread across his shirt from various little pinpricks to large shapes of deep, dark red. He doesn't move, doesn't even twitch, and that goldgreenblack fills with horror instead of rage, Morgana's hand raised halfway to her mouth before she turns and flees the room.

Morgause stays. She stands beside Merlin and watches the red as Merlin watches tainted gold fade into darkness.

He wakes again some indeterminable time later to Gwen tipping something thick down his throat and Gaius chanting over his body, incense and herbs burning in his hand. In the time between sleep and waking, he thinks Morgana must've fetched them. Morgause wouldn't care to and they wouldn't've found him quickly enough themselves - but then, he thinks, that's absurd. She wouldn't, and they can't save him anyhow. When tears wet Guinevere's face and she begins to murmur a quiet stream of ' _no, no_ ', he realises he must've said that out loud, and poor Gwen, sweet Gwen, she cries for him. He wants to tell her not to, that it's all right and everything will be fine, but all that comes out is "You're beautiful."

When he wakes again, Gwen is there already - and so, too, is Morgana. While Gwen sits in a chair pulled beside the bed, Morgana stands a ways behind her, distanced from them both, withdrawn into herself. One hand clutches the pendant of her necklace while the other covers the healing bracelet on her wrist; her brows are furrowed, and there is confusion in her eyes. There should be anger, by all accounts. He should be _dying_ , and she should be mad that he is not. But Gwen feeds him another potion and Morgana only stares with troubled storms brewing across a field of green. Merlin wants to ask _why_ , but he only watches instead. Watches as she watches him. Watching each other slipping out of their own lives.

There is fire in Merlin's blood and he thinks, perhaps Morgana is burning with him.

* * *

Through Gaius' careful healing and more sleep than Merlin's seen in ages, his body recovers with relative ease and he starts eating again. The physician gives him a raised brow of pleasant surprise, and Merlin can't help but to laugh at the familiarity of it. The sound is foreign and strange, a song in the wrong key, and they fall into tense silence as the notes fall away to oblivion.

He doesn't know why he eats. His body needs strength if it's to survive, he knows that much, but he doesn't know _why_ he does it. He doesn't know what he's waiting for, only that he's not quite willing to let go of it yet. And this, when he tells Gaius, brings a smile to the old man's face, the first Merlin can recall since before the - before everything. It's enough to leave him feeling warm without feeling as though he's aflame, and it's a little stupid how proud he is when he manages to keep down an entire plate of solid food. Small steps to recovery; it's one of the first things Gaius taught him when Merlin first became his assistant. Merlin remembers it well, and begins to hold fast to those memories, letting them stand vigil beside him as his only companions through a time of trial.

He has to, when he learns that Gwen and Gaius have disappeared from the castle.

Not just they two alone, either, but the Knights as well and half of the lower town. It's as though a windstorm swept through Camelot and took with it the loyal citizens of What Once Was, and it gives Merlin a brief glimmer of hope for What Will Be. It's more than he's had in what feels like years, enough so to overshadow the loneliness he feels at being the last of Arthur's friends within his palace. When Merlin dreams, he sees the two of them wandering freely through empty halls, fingers entwined between thin strands of gold as they travel well worn paths to nowhere at all. Arthur never speaks and they're the best dreams Merlin's had in months.

"You're looking well, Emrys," Morgause remarks one day. He sets aside the glass of water he'd been nursing to look up at her. She smiles sweetly and he hates her more in that moment than ever before. "Almost human again. I'm glad."

"What do you want?" spits Merlin, not trusting her kind demeanour for even a second. She tuts and shakes her head, coming close to tug on the iron cuffs around his wrists. He flinches away, even when no pain comes. This is her victory.

"I want you to reconsider our proposal." A pause, as she chooses her words carefully. "Or request, rather, but it's just as well. Our Queen is in need of your services."

"Morgana is not my Queen."

The pain, when it comes, is less intense in strength and more powerful in shock value, so long has it been since it last stung beneath his skin. He grits his teeth against it and gasps when it ceases.

"My sister is the rightful Queen of our era, Emrys. She is the _only_ one meant to sit upon that throne and lead us to freedom."

"Your _sister_ ," Merlin seethes, straining forward to glare up at her. This woman is his captor, his tormentor, and he would spit fire, rain acid, burn her to her bones with his eyes. Arthur's spirit roars within him; he is courage and he is magic. "Has been nothing but a _pawn_ in your designs, Morgause. This is _your_ vision of Camelot, not Morgana's. She never sought power. She only ever wanted acceptance."

"And you gave that to her, did you?" she bites back, bitter and angry, a woman with despair at the sight of her beloved choking and dying and fading at her feet. Merlin shakes his head.

"No. I did not," he admits, softer, before steeling himself once more; not angry, but firm, standing tall and fast against raging waters, "And that was my mistake. Yours was in thinking Morgana too weak to stand on her own two feet. You may have dressed her up in silvers and golds and laid men to rest at her feet, but she is still more powerful than the spells and enchantments you cast behind her back."

"I have only ever acted in her interest," Morgause hisses, stricken white with anger, and Merlin _scoffs_.

"You have acted of your own volition, to _your_ benefit. I do not doubt that you love her, but the truth is that you laid a people to waste and bade her carry that weight in the crown _you_ placed upon her head. This is _your_ vision, and you painted it in Morgana's blood."

The door slams shut across the room, the desk and table shifting with it, and they both snap their eyes to see the emptiness there. Morgause's eyes flash, the first raw emotion Merlin has seen on her face since that day so long ago. Wrath and anguish both in spades; she storms from the room without another word. The fight leaves him in a rush and he deflates back into the sheets, staring wildly at the door. The eye of the storm; he breathes a tremulous gasp into the silence of the room.

Merlin doesn't know what he's waiting for, but he thinks time might be running up.


End file.
